


Chronic Pain

by Sshorty



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Back Pain, Chronic Pain, Geralt Has Chronic Pain, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Inspired by The Witcher, Massage, Pain, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, Vulnerable Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Witchers Need Hugs (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 11:46:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30038199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sshorty/pseuds/Sshorty
Summary: Despite Dandelion's protests and the awful gut feelings he had about it, Geralt took on a contract just outside of Dol Blathanna. It seemed Dandelion was right, and Geralt came to realise this the hard way. Fortunately, the elves were not far behind...The injuries the Witcher had sustained left him with chronic pain. Despite this, Geralt carried on with his work, and Dandelion often had to help the Witcher when the pain became unbearable. Usually, the Witcher wintered at Kaer Morhen with the others, but this year, he decided against it and went to stay with the bard in Novigrad.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 44





	Chronic Pain

**Author's Note:**

> I actually suffer from chronic pain, myself, following a motorcycle accident that injured my back and left me with permanent nerve damage. Following a particularly bad week, I got to thinking... surely with all the injuries Geralt endures, he must have bad days too? In the books, it mentions he gets aches and pains, and so I was inspired by my own personal experiences of having chronic pain. And so this short (ish) fic was born.
> 
> ....and honestly, I'm tempted to explore this topic more... because vulnerable Geralt <3

The loud crack that  sounded across the clearing was enough to make  Dandelion’s stomach churn. The following muffled thud confirmed his fears, and he peeked out from behind the rock he had been instructed to hide behind , staring in horror as a mass of limbs and armour  lay amongst the grass.  Dandelion was shaking, doing his best to keep his breathing silent so not to draw attention.  For a moment, he thought it wasn’t going to work, until the giant turned, grunting as the lumbering  creature slowly  walked away from the  chaos it had caused. 

Trees were broken, snapped like their trunks were nothing more than twigs. The ground was dented where the Giant’s club had beaten into it,  and rocks were shattered with ease. Dandelion had  bad feelings about this contract right from the start... he had tried to stop the  Witcher from accepting it, but  he was a stubborn old mule, and had insisted, because the elves paid well. 

Now, though, Dandelion found himself staring across the clearing, his breath caught in his throat. He had asked to help, knowing the Giant was a  tough opponent, but had been ordered to stay hidden. He was regretting listening now... 

When the sound of heavy footsteps had faded into nothingness, Dandelion scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over a branch as he sprinted across the clearing. As he stumbled to a stop, he gazed down at the Witcher, blood trickling from his crown, body twisted unnaturally. The white-haired man was unconscious, that much was clear, but as he breathed, Dandelion was horrified to hear the tell-tale sign of liquid in his airways. Not thinking about any other possible injuries, Dandelion rolled Geralt onto his side, the man’s limbs falling limply as he  moved, sword falling from his hand. As he rolled to his side, the gurgling sounds decreased, and the culprit made itself known. Thick, dark red blood trickled from the corner of Geralt’s parted lips, his breathing shallow, and Dandelion feared the worst was coming. At least Dandelion could be there to comfort his friend when he breathed his last... at least the Witcher wouldn’t have to die alone.

Dandelion glanced over  Geralt’s body, eyeing up the wounds he had sustained, and he began to strip the pieces of armour off  Geralt's body . He wasn’t entirely sure what to expect beneath or why he was removing it , but he was desperate to find some way to help, some way to keep  Geralt alive.

“C’mon , you stubborn  fool... don’t you dare leave me now.” Dandelion pleaded hopelessly with the unconscious man, throwing pieces of armour aside as nimble fingers unfastened them. He tossed  the chest plate aside, placing a hand on  Geralt's chest at the sight of the  Witcher’s body gasping for shallow breaths, but the sound of galloping hooves appeared. Dandelion swore, grabbing  Geralt’s sword from where he had dropped it, and he rose to his feet,  turning around to see two horses galloping through the undergrowth, riders draped in dark cloaks.  They leaped into the clearing, and the horses came to a quick stop near them. Dandelion would fight to the death if he had to, but as one of the riders slipped silently from the saddle,  pacing swiftly over and dropping to  Geralt’s side, the bard knew they were here to help. 

“Calm,  dh'oine , we have come to help.” The figure still on horseback  spoke, and Dandelion looked up, recognising the angular features, high cheekbones, and the language that could only mean one thing. They were Elves. Dandelion lowered the sword, and he turned to the one down by  Geralt’s side, watching as elegant hands seemed to dance over  Geralt’s body, before the hooded figure turned to their mounted friend, speaking in a language Dandelion didn’t quite understand... something about help , that much he could gather. 

“How did you find us?”  Dandelion asked cautiously, wondering if perhaps this had all been a  setup , or that the elves were watching the whole ordeal without even helping. 

“We heard the Giant’s cries... followed the footprints it had left behind. It’s moved on now, but it will return. We need to be quick.” The elf who had crouched beside  Geralt now rose to her feet, and she turned, nimbly leaping onto her horse’s back once more. “Stay here, we will return with  help. Keep his airways clear.” 

A swift kick in the horses' sides and the two horses reared up then  sped off, back into the undergrowth and out of sight again, leaving Dandelion panicking, wondering what to do. He turned and looked back down at the unconscious  Witcher , his heart pounding in his chest , and he opted to do the one thing he knew how... provide comfort. 

Carefully, Dandelion lowered himself to the floor beside the  Witcher . He  carefully moved  Geralt’s hair out of the way. 

“ Geralt ,  you have to wake up...” The bard pleaded, using a leather piece of armour to prop  Geralt’s head up so he would be more comfortable, but also so he could still breathe. Blood slowly  dripped from the corner of the  Witcher's mouth, his breathing uneven , and Dandelion kept checking his vitals.

Minutes dragging like hours, every moment was crucial, but all Dandelion seemed able to do was comb his fingers through white hair in an attempt to provide comfort...

Suddenly, a gurgling noise  erupted from  Geralt’s throat, followed by weak coughing  could only be described as  being halfway between vomiting and drowning. Dandelion gasped, and he scooped  Geralt’s head up as the man’s chest heaved,  splatters of blood covering the floor by the  Witcher’s head.  Dandelion moved  Geralt so there was no way he could drown in his own bodily fluids, but the coughing led to a  groan unlike anything he had heard from the  Witcher before... it was almost a whimper. 

“ Geralt !” the bard exclaimed,  placing a hand on the  Witcher’s cheek, “speak to me! What hurts?”

At first, there was no reply, the  Witcher's breaths turning into weak, shallow  wheezing and Dandelion  pulled  Geralt’s head into his lap.  The  Witcher swallowed hard, what the bard could only assume was blood, and  weakly, golden cat-like eyes cracked open.  Geralt didn’t move, in fact he didn’t even seem to make any attempt to do so . Eyes clouded, pain clearly clouding his vision ,  Geralt looked up to see blue eyes gazing down at him in worry. 

Dandelion watched the  Witcher’s face as his expressions changed,  confusion to realisation,  agony slowly turning to fear... the latter was a look Dandelion had never seen on the  Witcher’s face before, and he felt his stomach twist in response.  Geralt sputtered, trying to breathe past the agony in his torso, and he wheeled in a scared voice Dandelion hardly recognised... 

“...I... can’t feel... my legs...” 

* * *

Geralt’s screams had haunted the bard ever since; they were primal, enough to make the blood curdle. The sound of bones moving, snapping, cracking as they were pulled back into place by his muscles as the magic coursed through his body. The images of  Geralt contorting in agony, writhing as his muscles cramped and  spasmed , pulling his bones back into alignment, crying out for death to take him. He’d coughed, gagged, vomited from the pain, heaving blood from his lungs as the shattered ribs pulled back into place, sliding free of the holes they’d pierced into his vital organs. The wounds closed, internal and external, thanks to the powerful Elven magic that ran through him. 

Ever since that day,  Geralt had barely spoken of what happened, of what he endured, but the one-time Dandelion had managed to drag his experience from  Geralt’s lips, the  Witcher had compared it to the Trials... the single most painful thing in a  Witchers ’ life.  Geralt had never said so out loud, but part of him wished they’d just let him die there, drowning in his own blood. At least then, it’d have been a death fitting of a  Witcher , killed by some huge beast... now, the thought of being killed by some simple  drowners plagued him... but not without reason. 

Usually,  Geralt had wintered at  Kaer Morhen , with the other  Witchers . They did so most years, gathering together in their den to wait through the worst of the weather. The snows were harsh in the mountain pass, the icy cold winds even more so, and were enough to make anybody’s bones ache. Since that contract,  Geralt had been back once, and it had been high on his list of ‘worst decisions ever’. From then on, he’d travelled to  Novigrad , staying with Dandelion in the cabaret. Winters were still rough, snow falling thickly in even the coastal city’s busy streets, but the temperatures weren’t as extreme. The winds, whilst still bitter, were not icy cold enough that they hurt, biting at the flesh. Amenities were closer, and on good days,  Geralt cold sometimes still find a local contract within the city’s walls for a bit of quick coin; after all, monsters didn’t disappear in winter like  Witchers did, but they did often seek shelter in peoples’ homes, uninvited.

* * *

Pain had always been a constant in a  Witchers ’ life; if it weren’t aching bones and blistered feet from endless travel, it was wounds, broken bones, bruises, sprains and fractures. A  Witchers ’ mutations allowed for their bodies to heal much faster, however some things, they simple couldn’t heal from... some things, not even magic could fix. Usually,  Witchers could have a day or two, sometimes longer, without pain, but ever since  Geralt had, once again, escaped the gaunt but enticing fingers of death,  Geralt hadn’t endured a single day without it. Pain had become a constant in his life, a norm. Usually, the pain was a dull, underlying current that ran through his bones like the steady pulse of blood moving through his veins. The rare good days, the pain was barely there, like a whisper in his ear or a voice that wouldn’t leave him alone. The bad days, however... they were a different kettle of fish entirely, and they occurred more often than the stubborn  Witcher liked to admit, or at least he tried to hide it as much as he could.  Geralt did his best to hide them from the world, but Dandelion was observant, and he always noticed when  Geralt was struggling, whether he said anything or not.

The depth of winter had truly set in, snow had fallen thickly in  Novigrad’s streets, though it wasn’t long before cart wheels, hooves, and thousands of boots had crushed it into the dirt and sewage that lined  the streets. This winter had been particularly harsh on  Novigrad , so much so that  Geralt had almost wondered whether perhaps the Wild Hunt had moved into town. Ice had formed along the city’s ports, freezing the boats into place, stopping all trade from overseas. Some amenities were hard to come by, but for the most part people coped. The wind was bitter, and whilst  Geralt was glad that he wasn’t wintering in the draughty keep, even Dandelion’s wooden walls couldn’t keep all of the winter’s icy breath out. 

A gust of wind whistled down the chimney, blowing smoke back down and into the room, smothering the fire. The sound caused the  Witcher to stir, his brows furrowing as he was dragged from sleep, despite his best efforts to stay in its warm embrace. He inhaled, the smell of the smoke and gases drifting into his nostrils, and he let out a sigh. He could hear Dandelion downstairs in the bar, cleaning, bustling about as he prepared the venue for yet another day of music, dancing and drinking. The  Witcher knew that meant that morning had already broken. 

Slowly,  Geralt did a check of his body, running through each limb, taking note of what he was going to endure that day. As he came to, however, it slowly became apparent that the cold winter air had already seeped its way into his bones. His body ached, but in particular, his back. He could feel the muscles aching, cramping up despite the fact that all he was doing was laying still in his bed. Ever since the day his spine had been snapped, his back had never been quite the same... his range of movement had been somewhat limited, the sensation in his legs was hit and miss, and the pain... well usually he could endure it, but on bad days, it was impossible to ignore. It seemed that today was going to be one of those days. 

Slowly, Geralt forced himself to roll onto his back. He winced as he moved, pain running through his lumbar as his spine flattened onto the mattress. The muscles around his spine practically groaned as he tried to breathe through the pain, but it was proving fruitless. His weary eyes cracked open, and he stared up at the ceiling above him, silently pleading with whatever gods may be listening, despite not being religious in the slightest. On days like this, he wished he’d just died there. He could feel aching slowly working  its way down his legs, his left one always worse than the right, slowly pulsating with pain... the sort of pain that makes you want to drive a knife into your own body and slice the offending limb off. A quiet groan escaped his throat, and he closed his eyes again, breathing as deeply as he could. 

Ever since his shattered ribs had pierced his lung, he had been left with thick scarring, which reduced his lung capacity. His breathing had been shallower since, and he sometimes struggled for air, but he usually didn’t let it bother him too much . The  Witcher remained still, wanting to move to relieve the pain, but he knew of no position that could bring him any relief. Instead, he just opted to stay still .

He wasn’t sure how long he lay there,  but it must have been a couple of hours. Eventually, the urge to urinate, and the rumbling of his stomach reminded him that he had to move. Reluctantly, he placed his hands on the mattress, and he used his upper body strength to help himself  adjust into a sitting position. Every bone and joint in his body hurt; he was sure he could hear them screaming at him as he forced them into action, the muscles pulling,  trapping nerves, causing shocks of pain to radiate down his limbs. His left leg felt like it was being electrocuted, shocks running right down into his foot,  but he reluctantly pushed through, and he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. 

The white-haired man, nearly a century old, though his appearance didn’t show it, decided it was time to move. He slowly moved, feeling every bit as old as he really was, remained perched there for some time. He knew if he got up, the pain would increase tenfold, but the cold draughts of winter air from the fireplace were biting at his naked body, and he knew it would make him worse. Forcing himself to his feet, using every ounce of willpower he had, he tugged himself into some clothes. He took some time to gather his strength again once dressed, leaning against the wall, as moving had caused the pounding of a headache to start creeping its way into his skull. He hoped to god that Dandelion wasn’t feeling talkative today... 

After a short while, he turned and he slowly made his way down the stairs, into the  bar downstairs. It seemed it was later than he had originally thought because as the  Witcher stiffly descended the stairs, customers had already started to  file in through the door. The only positive he could think of was that the music and courtesan hadn’t started work yet.  Geralt had  free access to the kitchen to help himself to whatever food was cooking that day. Dandelion told him he didn’t have to pay, but the  Witcher insisted on handing over some coin in return. 

Thankfully, he managed to slip into the kitchen without being spotted by Dandelion, and so he headed over to the stove to help himself to the meat that was being kept warm over the heat. Every step was agony, and he slowly made his way to the stove, only to feel a sharp pain shoot through his legs, originating from the base of his spine. He reached out, both muscular arms supporting his weight as he leaned onto the nearby table, almost bent double. He clenched his teeth, stifling a groan of pain before it could escape  into the air. 

Dandelion had returned from the cellar, making his way up the steps to find the Witcher propping himself up against the table, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned  white, his strong arms trembling slightly as he braced himself against the table. His head was hung low, white hair pulled back into a ponytail, but a few strands around his face fell forwards over his face. The bard set down a box he was carrying and he slowly made his way over to the hurting man. 

“Geralt?” Dandelion asked quietly. He knew Geralt struggled with chronic pain ever since his back had been broken, nerves trapped, muscles, tissue and organs left scarred. He had helped Geralt multiple times now, whether they were out travelling and the Witcher’s body went into spasm, or whether they had decided to take the day off and rest. He did his best to help, but he was also cautious... he knew that when Geralt was having a bad day, his temper was also fragile. 

“Geralt, talk to me. Use your words.” Dandelion prompted again, walking over to the man who hadn't moved. The Witcher’s broad shoulders were hunched over, his breathing was slow, methodical, and it was clear Geralt had taken to deep breathing to ease the pain. Dandelion lifted a hand and placed it on Geralt's back, which caused the man to flinch slightly, a natural instinct to pull away from anything that might cause harm. Geralt growled at the bard as the flinch just sent another wave of pain through him, but Dandelion didn't take it to heart... he should have known better than to touch an injured wolf without permission. 

“I’m fine, just give me a moment...” Geralt managed to speak. Dandelion did as he was told, stepping back a little, but still close enough that if Geralt were to fall, he’d be able to at least soften the blow. The Witcher didn’t though, thankfully, and with as deep an inhale as he could, he eventually straightened up again. He turned his head to look at Dandelion, who’s fingers twisted anxiously as he studied the larger man in front of him. 

“You’re not fine, let me help.” Dandelion spoke again, hoping the wolf wouldn’t bite his head off. He reached a hand out towards Geralt’s elbow, but the Witcher shrugged him off again, turning to move away. As he did so, though, an agonising shock ran from his lower back, right down his left leg. He winced, shifting his weight to his right leg, but in doing so, his right leg also proved useless. He reached his hand out to grasp onto Dandelion’s outstretched arm, calloused fingers wrapping around the bard’s soft wrist, and the Witcher slumped to the ground.

“Shit!” Dandelion yelped, reaching out as soon as he saw the Witcher go down. His hands grasped Geralt’s shirt, but the man was too large for him to catch. At least Dandelion managed to soften the blow somewhat and stop him hitting his head. Geralt landed hard, his back jolting painfully, the muscles going into spasm as he lay there. His face tensed up, eyes pressing shut, his breathing laboured. He could feel Dandelion moving him about, adjusting his position so he could get to Geralt’s back. The Witcher was shifted into a sitting position, leaning back against Dandelion’s chest, an arm around his broad shoulders to support him there, whilst the other hand reached down to his lower back. 

Geralt gasped, groaning in pain as he felt Dandelion’s knuckles press hard into the small of his back, just beside his spine. The pain intensified at first, his muscles rock solid from the cramping, but after a few moments, they began to relax, the pressure easing the spasms off. Slowly, the pain subsided to a dull ache, and Geralt’s breathing turned into a relaxed pant as he tried to catch his breath. His eyes closed, his head falling back onto Dandelion’s shoulder. The bard sighed, slowly rubbing Geralt’s lower back now, and he tilted his head to look down at the man propped against him. 

“You’re taking it easy today...” Dandelion told Geralt, but he could tell from the way Geralt’s lips pursed that he wanted to argue. “No buts... the firewood can wait. We have enough chopped to keep them going for today.” 

Geralt didn’t know what to say in response, just glad Dandelion had been there at that moment, despite his initial reaction. He hated it when Dandelion saw how weak he could be... for years, he’d hidden every sign of weakness from the younger man; pain, exhaustion, hunger, sickness, it’d all been hidden away from view. He’d hidden away to throw up, he’d given up his own food so the bard didn’t go hungry, he’d limped on through his injuries, all so he appeared to be the strong Witcher the stories made him out to be. Slowly, though, Dandelion had built up trust, and when the Witcher’s spine had been shattered, Geralt had realised just how reliable the bard could be... at least, he was pretty sure there were no ballads written about his new plight. He’d made Dandelion swear to never mention the chronic pain in any song or poem, or bring it up to anybody else in conversation, and so far, Dandelion had kept his word. He knew that revealing a weakness to the world could spell the end of his muse. 

Dandelion allowed Geralt to rest against him for a short while, continuing to massage those aching muscles, but Geralt’s hunger persisted, and eventually Geralt managed to sit up on his own. The bard got to his feet, one hand grasping Geralt’s side, the other his elbow. Slowly, Dandelion helped the white-haired man to his feet. He was stooped over slightly, like an old man, the muscles in his body refusing to allow him to straighten up. Geralt moved carefully, his hand reaching out to steady himself as he headed to the door, glancing to the bard with a thankful expression before he turned and headed out to the bar. 

He found an empty table, tucked away in a quiet corner where he could still observe the entire room, and he hoisted his stiff legs over the bench. He sat down, leaning his elbows on the table, and with a sigh, he placed his head in his hands. It felt like every joint in his body had been lined with grit, scraping as he moved. He was truly beginning to regret even getting out of bed. 

Geralt sat silently in the corner, watching people across the room chatting amongst themselves. His head hurt, but he didn’t have the energy to move, let alone get back up the stairs unaided. Alone, he focused on his breathing once more, until eventually a barmaid came over, greeting him kindly. They knew each other, in fact Geralt would openly admit to spending a few nights with the woman, so when Geralt heard her voice, he turned his head, letting his focus lapse to response to her out of politeness. 

“Can I get you anything to eat?” She asked, smiling, fingers twirling her brunette hair beside her shoulder as she smiled down at him. He tilted his head to look up at her, one corner of his mouth turning up in a half-hearted attempt at a smile. 

“Hmm? Oh, please... just whatever’s on offer.” He nodded, and he pulled a coin pouch out of his pocket. He passed a generous amount of coin to her in exchange for the food, despite Dandelion insisting he didn’t have to pay. The woman headed to the counter to put the money safely away, then returned with a hearty plate of vegetables, meat, and a thick chunk of bread. Geralt thanked her, then she left him to eat. 

Geralt sat and ate in silence, slowly picking his way through his meal despite his hunger. His shoulders and arms ached, causing him to pause and massage the muscles momentarily. The cabaret was getting busier, and soon, the musicians arrived... much to Geralt’s disgust. His head was hurting enough as it was, but he didn’t think he could move. He smiled at Dandelion who slid a cup of hot herbal tea in front of him, the scent of celandine and chamomile drifting into his nostrils, laced with turmeric and ginger... it was an anti-inflammatory tea Dandelion made for Geralt on his bad days, and the scent was somewhat comforting, despite what little difference it really ever made... perhaps it took the edge off, but little more. Geralt’s large, battle-worn hands wrapped around the mug, allowing the heat to penetrate into his body and ease his hands and wrists, and he sipped it in silence, watching as the bard bustled about, preparing for the music to start. The strumpets and courtesans arrived not long after, and by noon, the tavern was bouncing with music, laughter, dancing, flirting. 

Geralt was a fairly regular face at the tavern, usually sitting in his corner as he was at that moment in time... but often he had a girl nearby, or sometimes he disappeared into the rooms upstairs with them for a while. Dandelion always knew what the Witcher was up to, but he never said anything, and Geralt always treated the women with respect, paying well. Even on Geralt’s bad days, he’d always find time for the women, and sometimes he got a massage from the deal, but today was different. Today, he was showing no interest at all. He wasn’t even eyeing up the women as they danced, that smouldering glare of his almost hypnotised by their swaying hips. 

By mid-afternoon, he hadn’t moved at all from his seat. He’d shifted, his arms resting on the table, his fists clenching. His breathing was shallow, his teeth pressed tightly together, and his eyes almost squinting. The pain in his back had remained, and both his legs were pulsating, but moving and adjusting the way his weight sat on his tail-bone sent shockwaves through his body. His head was pounding, and the cold winter wind blew through gaps in the wooden walls, causing his joins to seize up with agonising results. Dandelion was keeping an eye on him, but with a whole venue to run, it wasn’t always easy. 

Much to Geralt’s dismay, a courtesan made her way over to join him. She sat down on the bench beside him, rubbing her leg up against his, her hand sliding down his thigh. He’d slept with her before; in fact, it seemed she was his favourite, so when he did nothing but flinch at her touch, her head tilted and she smiled slightly, trying to seduce him. Her eyes trailed down his tense jawline, more angular than usual as his teeth clenched. She shifted, turning sideways with a leg on either side of the bench, and in a deep, seductive voice, she leaned onto his shoulder with one hand and spoke into his ear. 

“What’s the matter, White One?” She practically purred, but he just shrugged her off roughly, which it seemed she took as him playing hard to get. Her left hand lifted, palm pressing against his chest, her other hand sliding up the back of his neck, fingers sliding into his hair as she leaned closer. Her teeth ran along the stubble of his jawline, moaning slightly as she then nibbled at his ear. A deep growl sounded from his throat.

“Back off.” He warned quietly, the tone of his voice was a serious, deep growl, but she didn’t get the message. She had no idea he was in agony, no idea that every move made him want to cry out in pain. He shrugged her off again, but she moved closer, pressing her inner thighs against his hip. Her hand slid down his chest, down to his crotch, but much to her surprise, she felt no arousal there. She had no idea what was to happen next. 

Despite his joints screaming at him to stop still, he moved, sharply jabbing his elbow into her stomach. The shove caused her to scream, and she was launched backwards off the bench, hitting her head on the floorboards as she landed. Geralt managed to stumble to his feet, snarling at her, but not for long. Pain travelled up his spine, down each leg, and his muscles cramped. He buckled over in pain, his hand reaching out to grasp onto the wall nearby. The girl scrambled backwards, the other girls in the room rushing over to help her, or protect her, whatever was required, but Geralt was in no fit state to attack her... he’d already reacted out of character. 

The commotion had Dandelion leaping over in an instant, not without knocking drinks flying on his way. He moved quickly, reaching them just in time to grab Geralt as the Witcher’s legs buckled. He threw Geralt’s arm over his shoulder, and he glanced at the girls apologetically, then with great difficulty he hauled the White Wolf up the stairs. Commotion filled the room they left behind, the music stopping, people shouting at him for hurting a woman, but Dandelion had more important things to worry about. Geralt knew he was going to be in big trouble for attacking one of his strumpets, but she’d pushed his buttons, wound him up when he was already tightly coiled. Normally, he’d never attack a woman, unless in defence, and Dandelion knew just how out of character this was. 

Geralt was hard to move at the best of times, but when he could barely stand straight, let alone move, it took some effort to get him back to his room. Dandelion hauled him through the door, kicking it closed behind him, and he carried Geralt over to his bed. Geralt made a noise that was somewhere between a whimper and a moan as Dandelion slowly lowered him onto the bed, which caused Dandelion’s innards to twist... Geralt never made sounds like that, even when it was really bad. 

As much as the bard wanted to scold him for attacking his staff, he couldn’t bring himself to, not whilst Geralt was in so much pain. The Witcher’s eyes had pressed shut, his fingers grasping the sheets, fists clenching as his whole body ached. Dandelion lit the fire again, seeing it had gone out, and covered Geralt with the sheets to try warm him up, leaving the Witcher to try and find a comfortable position so he could relax at least slightly. The bard bustled in and out of the room, filling the tub with hot water, infusing it with oils and herbs for pain relief. Geralt had always enjoyed a hot bath, but since his chronic pain had begun, taken a liking to hotter baths, so hot he could barely stand to submerge himself... Dandelion struggled to understand at first, but eventually it became apparent that it was because the heat helped ease off his cramping muscles, which would release the nerves, but also the heat biting at his skin caused his body to almost numb to the pain, because the sensations were overwhelming and the nerves seemed scrambled by the sensations. It was amazing he hadn’t burnt himself on the water yet, in all honesty... but if it helped, it was worth a try. 

With the bath filled, Dandelion had to help Geralt out of his clothes, and pretty much carried the Witcher over to the tub. He helped Geralt in, and he sunk down into the water, groaning as the heat began to lessen the pain, his muscles slowly beginning to release, the cramps subsiding. Geralt groaned, a deep, hoarse sound, his hands grasping the edges of the tub with a white-knuckle grip. Even the relaxing of his muscles hurt, and part of him was just wishing that death would take him now... though it never did... somehow, he always seemed to survive.

At some point during the overwhelming pain, Dandelion had knelt down behind him, next to the tub, and his supple hands had started to work at the muscles in Geralt’s shoulders and neck. Every muscle in the Witcher’s body seemed rock hard, Dandelion’s fingers massaging over scarred skin, easing knots out of them. He found the pressure points, and he pressed firmly, causing Geralt to wince in pain. Although the pain grew more intense at first, the pressure caused his muscles to relax in response, and the tension eased off. His head seemed to fall forwards a little, as though his neck had been held rigid by the muscles around his shoulders, and slowly the headache began to ease off. 

The bath helped, though the relief was minimal, and when the water began to grow cold, Dandelion heaved the Witcher out of the water. Geralt’s legs were shaking under his weight, and as he was set down onto a stool, the amazingly tolerant and caring bard ran a towel gently over the Witcher’s skin. The nerves just beneath his skin fired off in response, causing a tingling, prickling sensation beneath where the towel was being rubbed... it wasn’t entirely painful, but it wasn’t comfortable. 

The fire was burning well now, the room heating up, which Geralt was so thankful for. It took the edge off the chill of the winter air, and soon Geralt was being helped over to his bed. He was made to lay down on his front, his body protesting any movements, but soon a warmth trickled onto his back and the smell of herbs filled his nostrils... Geralt often carried an oil with him, specially concocted to ease his pain and calm the stiffness of his joints, with celandine, chamomile, rosemary, lavender, arnica, and many more herbs. It didn’t always work, but he always made sure he had some with him, and Dandelion kept some as well in case Geralt ran out. This was one of those times that Geralt was glad for his friend’s thoughtful nature. It’d been warmed by the fire whilst Geralt bathed, and once he was laying down, Dandelion poured some of the oil onto his bare back, warmth radiating from it as his hands began to massage over the Witcher’s skin. 

Dandelion was used to doing things like this for his muse now, having spent a long time on the road with him... he’d seen him naked, seen him sick, injured... he’d seen him drunk, coming down from the afterglow of rough sex... he’d seen him fighting for his life... nothing surprised him anymore, but every time the Bard saw the extent of the scarring that littered with Witcher’s body, his throat seemed to close up. The amount of pain the Witcher must have endured in his lifetime was unimaginable, and to have to deal with his own body fighting back against him now, he couldn’t help but feel guilt for being unable to stop the Giant before it inflicted such life changing injuries. 

Geralt was quiet for the most part, but occasionally a groan would slip from his lips as he lay there, feeling the bard’s hands massage the oils into his skin. His muscles were slowly relaxing now, his joints freeing up, and as Dandelion pressed, occasionally a popping sound would come from his spine where the pressure was finally released. Hands moved down his muscular legs, running down the backs of his thighs and calves, massaging out the tension, until eventually Geralt’s eyes closed. 

Dandelion kept working the Witcher’s muscles, thoroughly easing the knots out, until he realised that he hadn’t heard a noise from the Witcher for a while now. He glanced up from where he knelt on the bed beside the naked man, looking to Geralt’s face. His arms were folded up under his head, one cheek squashed up against his arm as his face rested there. His expression had relaxed, his lips parting slightly as slow, relaxed breathing passed between them. The Witcher had fallen into a deep sleep, finally relaxed... he looked so peaceful, a look that rarely crossed his face, and with that, Dandelion declared his work done. He lay the covers over the sleeping wolf, then grasped a blanket he had been warming in front of the fire. He draped it over Geralt’s back, the warmth continuing to bring relief for the white-haired man, and with a kind smile, he turned and headed back downstairs to sort out the destruction the wolf had caused in his agony.


End file.
